Minjun jolted awake to the sharp knock of his mother's hand rapping against his door."Minjun! Yah! If you're late again, don't come crying to me!"
He cracked open his eyes, groaning at the dry sting behind them. He'd slept barely two hours. The rooftop air still clung to his hair, heavy with city dust and that cold bite that only Seoul's early mornings knew how to give. He swung his legs off the bed, narrowly missing the guitar propped against the wall — the same guitar that had earned him a scolding last month when his father tripped over it in the dark.
His tiny room smelled faintly of instant noodles and the stale perfume of cheap laundry detergent. Posters of bands he'd long outgrown curled at the edges above his bed — symbols of the dreams that once seemed so big when he was fourteen. Now, they were reminders that the dream hadn't shrunk, only grown teeth.
He pulled on his café uniform: black polo shirt, khaki pants, apron stuffed into his backpack along with his notebook and a half-eaten protein bar. He paused at the mirror on his wall, raked his fingers through his hair, and practiced a tired smile — the kind customers expected from their barista when they dragged themselves in at 7 AM demanding caffeine and a forced good morning.
His mother waited by the kitchen table, hair pinned back, dark circles visible even under the kitchen's flickering light. She pushed a plastic container toward him."Eat this on the bus," she said, not looking at him."Thanks, eomma," Minjun murmured.
She didn't ask if he'd slept. She didn't ask if he'd been on the rooftop again. She just clutched her phone, scrolling for sales on laundry detergent or rice — tiny wars she waged to keep the house running. He wanted to tell her about the new song. About the lyrics that still throbbed in his chest. About how last night felt different — like something bigger might finally come. But he knew the look she'd give him. The one that said, When will you wake up from this? So he zipped up his bag instead.
Before he left, she called out softly, almost too soft to hear:"Try to be on time, Minjun-ah."He stopped at the door and nodded once. "I'll try."
The bus ride to the café was crowded with high school kids half asleep in their uniforms and office workers who smelled of aftershave and coffee they hadn't had yet. Minjun pressed his forehead against the window, tracing invisible notes on the glass with his finger. He counted beats in the rhythm of the bus wheels rolling over cracks in the road. A melody drifted in — soft, new. He fumbled for his phone to record a voice memo before it slipped away, swallowed by the roar of the city.
The café was a narrow shop tucked between a fried chicken joint and a nail salon. From the outside, it looked warm — all gold lights and fake plants in tiny white pots lined up like good little soldiers. Inside, the floor was sticky where the night shift hadn't mopped well enough, and the smell of burnt espresso clung to the walls no matter how many scented candles the manager burned behind the counter.
Minjun clocked in five minutes late. Hana, already behind the counter, raised an eyebrow at him."You're late.""I'm five minutes late.""Which makes you late."She shoved an apron at his chest. "Lucky for you, I don't care. The manager, though…" She pointed with her chin. Their supervisor, Mr. Park, a man in his mid-thirties with a permanently disapproving frown, was wiping down the pastry case like he was polishing a museum artifact. He glared at Minjun but said nothing — yet.
Minjun slipped behind the espresso machine. The hiss of steam and the smell of roasted beans settled him more than any lullaby ever could. He liked this part — the simple motions of tamping grounds, pulling shots, foaming milk. His hands moved on autopilot. His mind drifted to last night's rooftop chorus. He sang it under his breath, barely audible over the grinder's roar.
"Again with the mumbling," Hana said, elbowing him as she passed by with a tray of croissants."It's not mumbling, it's composing."She snorted. "You know, normal people write in diaries. You write songs no one hears.""One day you'll hear them on the radio," Minjun said, smiling.She paused just long enough to soften her teasing. "I hope so, superstar. I really do."
Hours bled together in the hum of orders and the beep of the register. By late afternoon, the café emptied out, leaving only the hum of soft jazz and the occasional drip of the leaky ceiling by the sugar counter. Minjun sat in the back room, notebook open on his knees, pen tapping a beat on the page. He didn't hear Mr. Park's voice at first.
"Yah, Minjun!"
He snapped to attention, almost dropping his pen. Mr. Park stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest."You're off in ten minutes. Don't even think about sneaking out early. Wipe down the tables. And fix that sugar counter. The pipe's leaking again.""Yes, sajangnim," Minjun said quickly.
He was halfway through wringing out a dripping rag when his phone buzzed in his apron pocket. He ignored it at first — Mr. Park's eyes were on him through the reflection in the pastry case. The phone buzzed again. Then again. Three times. He frowned, wiped his wet hands on his pants, and pulled the phone out.
One notification. One line. But it made his vision tilt for just a moment:
[From: Jang PD-nim — Starline Entertainment]"We heard your demo. Can you come in for a meeting this Friday at 3 PM?"
Minjun read it twice, three times. The words felt unreal — like seeing his own name on a marquee he hadn't built yet. He checked the address twice. It really was that Starline Entertainment. The one that had launched a chart-topping boy group last year. The one rumored to give nobodies a chance if they showed something raw, something real.
Hana stepped out of the back room, catching the frozen look on his face."Did someone die?" she asked.Minjun shook his head, too dazed to smile. "No… I think something's about to live."
The rest of his shift was a blur. Tables wiped. Sugar counter fixed — sort of. Mr. Park yelled about the mop being put away wrong, but Minjun didn't hear him. He heard only the rush of blood in his ears and the chorus that wouldn't stop repeating: They heard my song. They heard me.
At the end of his shift, he stepped into the alley behind the café and let the cold evening air slap him awake. He stared at the sky — a thick blanket of city glow drowning out all but the bravest stars. He pulled out his phone, re-read the message, and typed back:
"Yes. I'll be there. Thank you. I'll be there."
He pressed send, slipped the phone into his pocket, and let himself smile — a real smile, wide and reckless. For the first time in a long time, the door didn't feel locked anymore.