The Piano
by Hyun Jin-geon (1922), adapted for narration

He had settled, fully and happily, into the quiet comfort of family life.

His first wife — a woman he had married only for form's sake, someone he had never truly loved — passed away suddenly, just after he graduated from a university in Japan.

Not long after, he married again. This time, a lovely young woman, freshly finished with her schooling.

His new wife needed nothing more than the way she wore her hair, swept gently to one side, or the light sound of her shoes as she walked, to fill him with quiet satisfaction. And when he looked at her slender waist, and the soft, ever-smiling curve of her eyes, he felt something close to perfect happiness.

Life, at last, felt worth living.

He had been born into wealth. His father had left behind a considerable fortune, and when his father passed away a few years earlier, he was finally free from the watchful control of his extended family. Now, as the eldest son, he had come into his share of the inheritance.

Wanting to enjoy his new wife's affection without distraction, he left behind his crowded, complicated hometown. In the last days of spring, with petals still drifting on the wind, the two of them set up a new household in Seoul.

They found a house — modest in size, but more than enough for two — and set about building the life they had long imagined. In the main hall, they placed a mahogany table, surrounded by a sofa, turning it into a proper sitting room. The inner room became their bedroom. The room across the hall, a study. The back room, a dining space.

They decided porcelain and glass were more hygienic than brass, and used only those. Traditional wooden clothing racks and tiered chests, they judged, were far too old-fashioned, and did away with them entirely.

Anyone who stepped into their home would notice, first of all, the tall mirrored wardrobe standing against the far wall, and beside it, a pair of elegant wooden side tables, each holding a careful little arrangement of porcelain and glass.

With only the two of them in the house — a cook and a seamstress hired to handle the rest — there was, in truth, very little for his wife to do. And he himself, with more than enough money to live on, felt no need to compete for scraps in a society that rarely recognized real talent anyway.

Reading. Quiet conversation. Tending the garden. Kisses, and long embraces. These were how their days were spent.

Beyond that, their other great pastime was searching for anything an ideal household might need. His wife, in particular, had a remarkable eye for it — an almost uncanny instinct for spotting the perfect object. A deck of playing cards. A pair of nail clippers. Even these had once seemed, to her, like important discoveries.

Then one day, she realized something. Something so obviously essential to a proper, modern home that she was almost embarrassed she hadn't thought of it sooner.

She smiled to herself, quietly satisfied with her own cleverness, and spent the rest of the day waiting — with a restlessness only she could feel — for her husband to come home.

The moment he stepped through the door, she rushed toward him, as though something urgent had happened.

"I thought of something else today."

"What is it this time?"

"Something no proper household should be without!"

Her husband smiled.

"And what would that be?"

"Guess."

Her eyes sparkled with pride.

"Let me think..."

He glanced around the room, turned it over in his mind, genuinely trying. But after a moment, looking almost sheepish, he admitted,

"I can't think of it."

"You really can't guess?"

She said it almost sharply. Then, gazing at him with a playful, teasing smile, she leaned in close, as though about to share some great secret, and whispered into his ear.

"A piano."

"Of course! A piano!"

He shouted it out, like a man waking suddenly from a long, pleasant dream. Just imagining the happiness a piano would bring was enough to make him giddy. In his mind's eye, he could already see his wife's pale hands dancing over the keys, light as a butterfly.

Less than two hours later, a magnificent piano arrived, taking its place in the main hall like a queen upon her throne. Husband and wife stood before this splendid instrument, exchanging glances brimming with delight.

"Doesn't it feel like the whole room is glowing?"

"It really does. The whole house feels brighter, somehow."

"See? Wasn't it a wonderful idea?"

"It really was. You truly do have what it takes to be the ideal wife."

They both laughed.

"Well then — shall we hear you play? Let's see this musical talent of yours."

He turned to her, his face still lit with happiness.

Her bright expression clouded over at once. Her face flushed a deep, burning red.

She tried to hide it, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why don't you play first?"

Now it was his turn to hesitate. A heavy, awkward silence settled over them.

"Come now. Just play something. There's nothing to be embarrassed about."

He tried, gently, to coax her. But the words trailed off, unfinished.

"I... I don't know how."

Her voice was so faint it was barely audible. Her cheeks burned, and her eyes glistened, just at the edge of tears.

"You don't know how to play, either?"

He laughed, a little too triumphantly.

"Well then. Let me show you how it's done."

He sat down at the piano. But the truth was, he had no idea how to play it either. He simply ran his fingers up and down the keys, back and forth, without any real melody at all.

Only then did she relax, breathing a small sigh of relief. She smiled softly and said,

"My, you really do play beautifully."