Seoul Music

Autumn was seeking refuge from her reflection. She struggled to accept those almond eyes carved by the same hands that bruised her. Her shoulders quivered as she traced over her lips, carefully, like a child afraid to color outside the lines.

Faint traces of her mother speckled her face, each figurative freckle a reminder of the memories they once shared. A tightness seized her chest as she cursed the woman whose presence she could never erase. This half of her, imbued with the essence of her mother, was forever a stain.

It had been only a year since Autumn walked out of her mother’s life, vowing never to return. However, she never expected the heat of their fallout to burn for years. Those horrendous memories followed her home, etched as a scar that never faded. She was free—she should be happy. So why was grief the only emotion to befriend her?

Her headset hovered over her ears as she savored the moment when they would close off the world and encapsulate her in silence. A chime signaled their success linking to her keyboard piano. With a deep inhale, the type one takes when preparing to break bad news, Autumn’s fingers delivered the blow. They danced gracefully over each piano key, hoping to convey the complex feelings tucked away inside her.

***

Music was always the freedom she craved. When her childhood home became a war zone of fluctuating voices and heated aggression, those sweet melodies would carry her to safety. Each note transported her into another world, one where she was in control of the situation, one where no one could hurt her.

Identity is not an easy thing to stifle, yet her mother tried her best to tame the wild flames of passion dazzling within Autumn. Autumn’s connection to music became a forbidden love. Her headphones kept her secret to a whisper, while her keyboard’s truncated size acted as a cloak.

She maintained this affair, but her inability to pursue it openly restrained her potential. Of all the flowers in Autumn’s garden, her piano skills were not ones that her mother bothered to water. They were disposable, just like Autumn.

***

Autumn awoke with sheet music pressed to her cheek and the piano keyboard acting as her blanket. Per usual, she habitually avoided confronting herself in the mirror while brushing her teeth. Any possibility of accidentally drinking in those features was a risk she was not willing to take. It was too distressing to face someone she was not yet ready to accept.

In the kitchen, her hand grazed a brochure affixed to the refrigerator door. The folded piece of paper boasted of beautiful sights, unique experiences, and a plethora of food dishes that only South Korea could offer. It stared back at her expectantly, waiting for Autumn to book the flight and visit her hometown.

She quickly waved her hand in the air as if to drive away the intrusive thoughts. Autumn was grappling with her identity, at odds with her Korean half. Her mother was always the ticket into Korea—she was her translator, local guide, the link that intertwined Autumn with family she never knew existed. But now that link was severed. It felt as though she was an island peering longingly at the mainland, unsure if they would ever reunite. Would her family even recognize her if not for her mother?

A boisterous slam of notebooks against the table drew Autumn out of her trance.

“You’re coming with us to Korea, right?”

The microexpressions on Autumn’s face betrayed her, exposing her hesitance.

“Oh please, please, please! You have to come. It won’t be the same without you, and you know it.”

Autumn’s best friend of fifteen years was not the type to accept “no” for an answer, especially when it had been a longstanding promise that they would visit South Korea once they could scrape together enough money.

With the expenses just barely covered, the pair had originally planned the trip with anticipation. However, that was before any of this happened with Autumn’s mother.

“I know you’re worried,” Jenna stated, inching toward Autumn, “blood might be thicker than water, but at the end of the day, that’s just a phrase, and you’re the one who determines which is worth more.” She paused, looking back at the brochure.

“What do you think makes us who we are?”

Autumn’s breath hitched at this sudden question. She had thought about it numerous times, wondering how much of her was original and how much was planted by the seeds of her mother.

“It’s the decisions we choose to make, and frankly, I don’t want to believe that you’ll make the same ones she did.”

***

Despite her reluctance, Autumn found herself slumped in an airplane, wedged between Jenna and an anonymous passenger. Her friend had succeeded in challenging Autumn to face her feelings.

Jenna clenched Autumn’s hand and flashed her a grin. Although this trip evoked underlying fears, it also offered hope of fond new memories.

Upon landing, Jenna wasted no time in dawdling through the plans. She scampered through the city, friends in tow, trailing behind her like preschoolers tethered to a safety rope while crossing the street. Autumn paused to catch her breath and ultimately devised an excuse to stray away from the group.

Dumbfounded by a large performance hall which beckoned her to explore, Autumn announced she would catch up with everyone after fulfilling this side quest. As she entered the hall, marble tiles glistened with a surreal shine; hypnotic tones washed over her keen ears; spotlights blinded her as the stage came into view. Autumn’s body resonated with every hum of the daegeum—a traditional Korean bamboo flute—centered on stage.

With eyes shut, Autumn lifted her hands as if to play an invisible piano. Her slender fingers whisked through the air like a puppeteer pulling strings to breathe life into art. Although neither instrument could ever replicate the other, Autumn hoped to capture the same colors within her piano playing.

She opened one eye to sneak a quick peek at the instrumentalist’s face.

The woman’s nostrils flared.

Her brows furrowed.

The pitch climbed—then silence.

Feeling overwhelmed, Autumn broke her gaze from the woman and focused on the marble flooring. There, split between two tiles, were a pair of eyes she did not recognize. Those almond-shaped eyes no longer filled with the angst of the past, but rather a distinct passion that only music could draw out.

Serene harmonies tiptoed through the air. The last notes of the woman’s cathartic story left behind nothing but vulnerability.

Autumn was not her mother’s broken dreams, nor was she the unforgiving words her mother spoke. They might be from the same cloth, but nothing was stopping Autumn from becoming part of a new quilt—stitched together by friends and chosen family—and of course, by her love for music.

Her heart was still sore from what her mother had done, but it still had love to give. Those features she so disdained seemed less harsh now, more forgiving. It was okay to look like her mother. It was okay to be exactly as she was. It was okay to be broken, so long as there were still pieces to put together when the time was right.

“Excuse me, Autumn?”

A face painted from distant memories resurfaced for only a second. The woman had been the same as the one on stage, only her characteristics became more apparent up close. Her eyes smiled with lines that seemed all too familiar, her delicate moles hugged either side of her mouth.

“Auntie,” whispered Autumn under her breath.

“I knew it was you! You look just like your mother,” the woman gushed.

Autumn’s heart was in her throat. Acceptance was a winding road on which she had only just embarked. The ride was proving rather bumpy, but—

Hey. At least I am getting there.