Chapter Text
The two coins felt like shards of ice against Eun-gyeol’s palm.
In the neon-drenched fever dream of 1995, those coins had been his anchor, his return ticket to a world of high-speed internet, smartphones, and a family that—while silent—was safe. But as he stood in the mouth of the alleyway where La Vida Music had stood only hours before, the anchor had snapped.
The shop was gone.
Not just closed for the night, and not just moved. It was gone. In its place stood a grimy, nondescript warehouse with a "For Lease" sign that looked like it had been rotting there since the start of the decade. The vibrant, magical glow of the "La Vida" neon sign, which had pulsed like a heartbeat, was replaced by the flickering, sickly yellow of a dying streetlamp.
Eunyu suddenly came to his mind. Did she make it back home? Where is she? He quickly pushed the thoughts of her aside. He will meet her in 2023 anyway but right now, he needed to get home. He was done with his purpose here.
"Master!" Eun-gyeol screamed. His voice, the voice of a boy who had spent his life being the bridge between two worlds, sounded small and jagged against the brick walls. "Open the door! I did what you wanted! I played the song! I tried... I tried to save him!"
He threw himself at the rusted metal shutters of the warehouse. The impact jarred his shoulders, a dull thud that offered no magical resonance, no shimmering portal. He began to claw at the edges of the metal, his fingernails scraping against iron and dirt.
"You can't do this!" he sobbed, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. "My mom is waiting. My brother... Eun-ho is waiting for me to come home from the store! You said I had to find the sparkle! I found it! Please!"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the two 500-won coins. He threw one of them at the door, half-expecting a ripple in the air, a sign that the Master was just playing a cruel joke. The coin hit the metal with a pathetic clink and rolled into the gutter, disappearing into the murky, rain-slicked sewer.
The silence that followed was the heaviest thing Eun-gyeol had ever felt. It wasn't the peaceful silence of his home in 2023. This was the silence of a tomb.
Eun-gyeol didn't know how long he sat there, his back against the cold brick, his hands stained with rust and salt. The 1995 Seoul air was thick with the smell of leaded gasoline and charcoal briquettes. Somewhere in the distance, a radio was playing a upbeat pop song—a track that wouldn't be "vintage" for another thirty years. To everyone else, this was the present. To Eun-gyeol, it was a prison sentence.
I failed. The thought was a physical weight on his chest. He had traveled through time with one mission: prevent the accident. He had practiced his guitar until his fingers bled, he had joined the band, he had navigated the labyrinth of his father’s teenage ego—all to stop Ha Yi-chan from losing his hearing.
And yet, only a couple of days ago, he had watched it happen. He had seen the car, heard the screech of tires, and felt the sickening thud of a body hitting the pavement. The timeline had corrected itself with a violent, bloody disaster that mocked Eun-gyeol right on his face.
He stood up, his legs shaking. He had no money, no ID that would be valid for another three decades, and no home. But he had a father. Now his best friend, and he can't— for the love of his life, leave him right now even though Yi-chan had told him to only come back when he no longer wore guilt on his face.
The hospital was a labyrinth of white tile and the sharp, stinging scent of antiseptic. Eun-gyeol moved through the halls like a ghost. He looked like any other teenager in a denim jacket, but his eyes were a thousand years old.
He stopped outside Room 304. Through the small glass window, he saw him.
Ha Yi-chan was awake.
The boy who had been a whirlwind of energy, the "Great Ha Yi-chan" who had shouted his dreams to the rooftops, was sitting perfectly still. His head was wrapped in thick, white bandages that covered his ears. His eyes were fixed on the window, watching the rain hit the glass.
Eun-gyeol pushed the door open. The hinges gave a soft, high-pitched creak.
In 2023, his father would have felt the vibration of the door or seen the shift in the air. But this Yi-chan—this 18-year-old version of the man Eun-gyeol loved—didn't flinch. He didn't turn. He stayed locked in his own internal vacuum.
"Dad," Eun-gyeol whispered. The word felt illegal in this year.
He walked to the side of the bed. Yi-chan’s eyes slowly tracked over, landing on Eun-gyeol. For a second, a spark of the old Yi-chan flickered—a flash of recognition, of the bond they had formed in the band.
Yi-chan’s lips moved. He was trying to speak, but without the feedback of his own voice, the words were breathy and uncoordinated.
"Eun... gyeol... ah..."
Eun-gyeol grabbed his father’s hand. It was cold. "I’m here. I’m right here."
Yi-chan’s frown deepened. He pointed to his ears, his expression shifting from confusion to a raw, jagged terror. He squeezed Eun-gyeol’s hand so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Why..." Yi-chan mouthed. "Why is it... so quiet?"
Eun-gyeol felt his heart shatter. It wasn't just a metaphor; it was a physical sensation of something vital breaking inside his ribs. He had spent his whole life being his father’s ears, translating the world for him. He had come back to 1995 to release his father from that silence, only to be the one who stood by and watched the door slam shut.
"I'm sorry," Eun-gyeol said, the tears finally spilling over. He didn't sign. He wasn't ready to admit that this was permanent. "I'm so sorry, Yi-chan-ah." He can't help but apologize. Over and over again even though Yi-chan had already told him this was not his fault.
Yi-chan began to shake. He reached up, clawing at the bandages on his head, his chest heaving as a silent sob racked his body. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was a hollow, haunting wail that echoed off the sterile walls.
Eun-gyeol pulled him into a hug, pinning Yi-chan’s arms to his sides to stop him from hurting himself. He held his father—his teenage father—and rocked him back and forth.
Outside, the year 1995 continued to move forward, indifferent to the boy who was trapped in the past and the boy who was trapped in the quiet.
Eun-gyeol looked out the hospital window at the Seoul skyline. The La Vida Music shop was gone. The gateway was closed. The future he knew—the one where he was born, where he had a brother, where his mother and father found a way to be happy despite the silence—might now just be a distant memory.
He was stuck. And for the first time in his life, Ha Eun-gyeol didn't know how to find the music.