Chapter 21: The OST Sung by the Flowers (1)
December 16th. 8:10 p.m.
After many twists and turns, I found myself standing once again in front of Lilac’s studio room. This time, I was much less nervous than before. In fact, I felt a similar ease as when I met Yoon Hyeok-pil. Maybe it’s because they liked my song?
Just as I was about to knock and go inside, the thought of that day suddenly came to mind, and I pressed my ear against the studio door.
-Ugh, so annoying. They told him to come by 8, but he’s late.”
-Wow, talk about not saying anything to his face.”
-What? The only reason I’m quiet is because the song’s good. Otherwise, I would’ve already called him out. You know what I’m like. I can be a complete tyrant. But seriously, why does the composer’s name have to be ‘Heli’ again? Doesn’t it annoy you? He’s got a huge belly. Just call him ‘Pot Belly’.”
The insults came out like a rap. ‘Pot Belly’? Guess I need to lose weight.
Sigh.
Oh well, I don’t care anymore. At least now I have a legitimate way to… no, teach them a lesson.
Knock knock
I tapped on the door.
“Yes, yes~”
A much more friendly and sweet voice welcomed me this time. When I opened the door and stepped inside, the three of them greeted me in turn. I simply nodded in response and took a seat in front of the synthesizer.
“Did you listen to all the songs I sent you?”
Although there were still a few parts I needed to fix, I had managed to stay up most of the night, barely finishing it by yesterday.
“Yes.”
“We listened.”
“…Yeah.”
All three nodded. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as I saw the sparkling eyes of the two, excluding Yoo Ah-ra.
“Alright then, let’s practice a bit now.”
I handed out the sheet music, which included both the lyrics and the musical scale. The parts where the instruments could easily overshadow the vocals were assigned to Lee Yeon-ji and Kim Yoo-jung, while the sections requiring delicate emotional expression were given to Yoo Ah-ra. The chorus was to be sung by all of them together.
“I’ve divided the parts the way I envisioned best. We’ll still need to discuss the lyrics further with the lyricist, but for now, familiarize yourselves with these. Yoo Ah-ra-ssi, you’re up first.”
Without a word of protest, Yoo Ah-ra stepped into the booth.
Her part consisted of the first two lines, the two lines just before the chorus, the chorus itself, and the bridge along with the closing section of the song.
“Let’s begin.”
I played the song. The soft, understated intro, borrowed from the style of British pop, started to flow, followed by Yoo Ah-ra’s voice…
-Today was a good day.
“Stop.”
I cut her off as soon as I heard the first line. The color still didn’t sit right with him. It was dull, lacking any brilliance.
-Why?
“Ah-ra-ssi, you’re doing it just like when you sang the OST. Don’t overdo it—just sing it naturally.”
-…Overdoing it?
“Yes. Let’s try again.”
I played the song once more.
-Today was a good day…
“Stop.”
It still wasn’t working. The image of white that formed in my mind was lifeless and lacked clarity.
There were probably two reasons for this: either the song didn’t suit Yoo Ah-ra, or Yoo Ah-ra wasn’t singing it in a way that suited her. I was confident it was the latter.
“Let’s go again, and I mean it—just sing it naturally. In fact, let’s skip to the chorus.”
-Ugh, fine.
This time, I skipped to the chorus instead of starting from the beginning.
—They say she’s been loved so much, she’s never known sadness. She’s so beautiful, she doesn’t even know what tears are.
“Again.”
—Ssshh.
Again.
And again.
Over and over.
“Why do you keep trying to add unnecessary flair?”
-What flair…? Ugh, let’s go again.”
“Alright, let’s start.”
For the next 30 minutes, we repeated the same section, but Yoo Ah-ra couldn’t deliver a single line as I had instructed.
“I told you to just sing it naturally.”
At this point, even Yoo Ah-ra seemed frustrated, snapping back at me sharply.
“I am singing it naturally.”
It felt like a reenactment of the OST directing fiasco, and my head was starting to hurt.
“Is that really you singing naturally?”
-I know myself better than anyone else. Do you think you know me better than I do? How much have you ever seen of me?”
Sigh.
I couldn’t help but let out a sigh. Inside the booth, Yoo Ah-ra looked even more dissatisfied than I was.
“Step out.”
I finally pulled her out of the booth and turned to the two younger girls, who were watching the situation unfold with somewhat serious expressions.
“You two, get into the booth for a moment.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Okay.”
Lee Yeon-ji seemed confused, but Kim Yoo-jeong quietly pulled her along into the booth without a word.
“Sit down.”
Yoo Ah-ra, with a somewhat sulky expression, sat down in front of me.
“…What now?”
“What now? Don’t you realize you’re ruining your own singing?”
“…”
She looked confused—no, more than that, she looked wronged.
“…What’s wrong with it?”
“Oh, come on, stop pretending to sing well. Or has it just become a habit? Why do you keep trying to sing everything like it’s rock?”
“Pretending to sing well? I’m just…”
“You’re doing it a lot. You’re singing like Lavin. You’re mimicking all of Lavin’s habits. But you’re not Lavin. You’ll never be Lavin.”
I don’t know if she considers Lavin her mentor or role model, but Yoo Ah-ra and Lavin are on completely different paths. Their vocal colors are entirely distinct.
It might sound harsh, but it’s the truth.
Imitating someone may feel satisfying in the short term, but it ultimately leads to a dead end. Being a singer isn’t just a hobby. You can’t be happy by merely enjoying it. It’s better to face criticism now and change course than to regret it later.
“Get rid of all those habits. Especially stop trembling your voice. Just sing it naturally, like you’re speaking. If you keep this up, you’ll only be a burden to the others.”
“A burden?”
This time, her face looked genuinely sad.
Like a cat caught in the rain, her eyes made me feel a pang of sympathy. I shouldn’t feel this way.
“…Yeah, so go practice by yourself for now.”
Her drooping eyes stared at me as if she were about to cry. What is this, an emotional appeal? I avoided her gaze as much as I could and waved her off.
“J-just go and practice on your own. You’re best when you’re natural. I’m not letting you record until you drop all those bad habits.”
“What? Are you kidding me right now?!”
Her voice roared like a lion’s, echoing around the room. Ah, finally she is showing her true colors.
“Hmm. Who was it that promised to listen well?”
“…Tsk.”
Her rebellion was quickly quashed. Yoo Ah-ra staggered over to the sofa and slumped down.
Is it because my hearing got better after the accident? As soon as she sat, I heard her muttering softly under her breath.
“This is so annoying. Like he’s such a great singer himself. Pig, pig, pig.”
Hearing her complain like that oddly put me at ease.
I decided to ignore her grumbling and focus on the two girls in the booth, blinking and looking over at me.
I turned the mic back on, which I had switched off during the scolding.
“Let’s start with Yeon-ji-ssi. Yoo-jeong-ssi, you can step out.”
“Okay, I’m ready~!”
“Start from the chorus, Yeon-ji-ssi.”
Lee Yeon-ji began to sing.
There was no need to point out anything. She sang so well, it was just pure enjoyment. Her voice shone with a vibrant brilliance, a ‘radiance’ that swayed powerfully.
Yes, that’s the kind of light we need.
I closed my eyes, satisfied, letting myself get lost in the music when suddenly, Kim Yoo-jeong tapped my arm. I lowered one side of my headset, tilting my head in confusion. She pointed behind me.
I turned to see Yoo Ah-ra glaring at me, her eyes filled with rage, as if she wanted to kill me, gnashing her teeth.
“…Alright. Yoo-jeong-ssi, you’re up next.”
I lightly brushed it off.
12:20 a.m.
I left the studio after telling everyone to practice hard on their own.
Maybe I’ve been focusing on colors too much because my head feels light, like my energy drained. I should grab some chocolate on the way out.
I trudged down the stairs.
That’s when it happened.
–…Hello…
As I passed by the first-floor lobby, a faint sound caught my attention. It was just a brief line, but it happened to be from a song I really like.
The stairs leading to the basement. The basement of the Letter building is where the trainees use the practice rooms. The soft sound was leaking out from there.
“Hmm?”
Curious about who was singing… but now that I’m the producer for Lilac, it shouldn’t be a problem if I go check it out.
I turned toward the stairs.
Step by step, as I descended, the voice grew louder. There was something about the tone that made me instinctively more heightened.
Then, suddenly, a stream of color flowed toward me. It danced in the air, shimmering like silk right before my eyes, radiating a brilliance reminiscent of sunlight.
Drawn as if mesmerized, I followed the source of the voice.
In an empty practice room, a woman sat alone, playing the guitar and singing.
She was beautiful. Her voice shone with a radiance, and with her eyes closed, she softly recited the lyrics.
I closed my eyes, too, as I listened to the music.
The colors she emitted grew even more vivid.
The pure, golden color of her voice reached out to me, scattering like sunlight, accompanied by the serene, blue melody of her guitar.
The two elements in front of me converged, transforming into a single beautiful painting.
The soft strumming of the guitar formed the solid background, while the warm, sunlight voice took center stage, commanding all attention.
This picture, with just the voice and guitar, was already a complete masterpiece.
Before I realized it, my legs had unconsciously carried me right in front of her.
At that moment, her performance ended, and as if sensing my presence, she slowly lifted her gaze.
In her eyes, I saw myself reflected—caught in deep admiration, unable to hide my excitement.
Before I could stop myself, words spilled out.
“Your song… your voice… they’re both beautiful.”
Her eyes widened in slight surprise, but then she gave me a small, shy smile in response.
“Are you a trainee?”
I was in a practice room, so of course, she must be a trainee. As I silently cursed my stupid question, she nodded.
“That song you were just singing… was that yours?”
Another obvious question. For some reason, I couldn’t keep my composure. Something about her reminded me of someone, and the feeling gnawed at my heart.
“Oh? Uh, yes.”
She brushed her hair behind her ear, avoiding my gaze, and for a moment, my heart skipped a beat.
In that instant, a piece of my past—a fragment of Jeong Ha-yeon, the girl I once loved—came rushing back.
“Ah, no, I mean… That was Adele’s ‘Hello’, right? You sang it really well. Um… what’s your name?”
Surprised by the sudden question, she took a step back without answering.
“Oh, sorry, it’s nothing weird. I’m actually a producer too. I’m in charge of Lilac’s album. My name’s Heli—my real name, Kim So-ha. I was just on my way out, but your singing caught my ear. I mean, maybe one day you could do a guide vocal or something… uh, yeah, something like that.”
At this point, I didn’t even know what nonsense I was rambling about.
“Oh, I see… My name is Ji Ah-young.”
“Ah-young-ssi, huh? That’s a beautiful name.”
The moment I said it, I felt awkward.
If I stayed any longer, this could easily be misunderstood.
“Well, keep up the hard work. I’ll get going now.”
“Ah, yes…”
“Really, your singing was amazing. I’m not just saying that.”
She smiled at me, a smile that reminded me of sunlight.
“Thank you.”
A singer who radiates such beauty with just her voice—Ji Ah-young.
I decided to remember that name.
