When the Han River Sleeps
Rhapsody in Moonlight
Jihoon sat on the riverbank that evening, fingers curled around guitar strings, waiting for the city’s noise to fade. He played in fits and starts, letting unfinished melodies spill onto the water. Lamp posts flickered behind him, casting sprawling shadows that tangled with the roots of old willow trees.
Yuna approached quietly, sketchbook tucked under her arm. She paused at the edge of the light, heart tapping out a nervous rhythm. “Is it okay if I listen?” she asked, voice softer than dusk.
He nodded, shifting to make room. “I can’t promise it will sound… finished.”
A breeze caught his words, carrying them between cherry blossoms and the gentle drip of river water. Yuna settled beside him, knees folded, sketchbook open but forgotten. She watched his hands move—bare, searching, sometimes uncertain.
Jihoon started to play, the music halting, then swirling outward: a melody shaped by longing and late-night solitude. Yuna felt the notes shimmer, each one a question she couldn’t answer.
For a while, they let silence fill the spaces music had left. The air tasted of grilled fish from distant food stalls and the smoke of early spring bonfires. Somewhere across the water, laughter echoed.
“Why music?” Yuna asked, almost shy.
Jihoon blinked at his hands, voice husky. “It’s the only way—sometimes—it feels like I’m not alone.”
Yuna nodded, picking up her pencil, sketching the way the lamplight cupped Jihoon’s profile. “Maybe that’s why I draw,” she admitted. “To hold a moment before it drifts away.”
A few petals floated down, landing on Jihoon’s guitar case. He glanced at them, smiled, and pressed a chord that sounded a little braver.
“Would you show me someday?” he asked gently, watching the sketch come alive.
“Maybe,” she replied, eyes shining. “If the river is quiet enough and Seoul lets us stay hidden.”
They lingered as the city deepened into blue, two strangers turning tentative confessions into something precious, lit by blossoms and moonlight.