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The abandoned music room was supposed to be locked.
At least, that’s what everyone said.
Yuna had heard the rumors before—whispers passed between students, stories that changed depending on who told them. Some said a teacher had gone mad. Others said a student never left.
Yuna didn’t care much for any of it.
But she did care about the sound drifting through the empty hallway.
A piano.
Soft. Slow. Almost fragile—like each note was being played with care, like it meant something.
She stopped walking.
The hallway was empty. Too empty.
No one used this part of the building anymore.
Yet the melody continued.
Curiosity pulled her forward, slow and steady. The closer she got, the clearer it became—not just music, but something emotional. Heavy. Like the song was carrying a memory.
The door to the music room was slightly open.
Yuna hesitated.
Then, carefully, she peeked inside.
And everything stilled.
A girl sat at the piano.
Her back was straight, posture perfect, fingers gliding across the keys like she’d done it a thousand times. Her hair was tied into a simple ponytail, swaying gently with each movement. Dust floated through the sunlight streaming from the windows, wrapping her in a soft, almost unreal glow.
For a moment, Yuna forgot how to breathe and suddenly dropped the book she’s holding.
The music stopped.
“Oh—sorry,” Yuna blurted, pushing the door open a little wider. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… your playing—it’s really beautiful.”
The girl froze.
Then slowly, she turned.
And Yuna felt something tighten in her chest.
The girl’s face was soft—too soft, almost dreamlike. Her eyes held something quiet and distant, like she’d been somewhere far away before being pulled back.
But when she smiled—
It was warm.
“Thank you,” she said gently.
And somehow, that was enough to make Yuna step inside.
Yuna didn’t mean to come back the next day.
But she did.
The door was open again.
And the girl was there.
Playing.
This time, Yuna didn’t interrupt. She just sat quietly on one of the old chairs, listening.
The song was different.
Still beautiful—but lighter. Softer.
As if it noticed her.
When it ended, the girl glanced over.
“You came back.”
Yuna shrugged, trying to act casual. “Your playing’s kind of hard to ignore.”
The girl smiled. “I’m Haram.”
“Yuna.”
Days passed.
Then more.
Visiting the music room became something Yuna stopped questioning.
At first, she only listened.
Then she started talking.
Small things. Complaints about school. Stories about her friends. Thoughts that didn’t really matter.
Haram always listened.
And when she laughed—it was soft, genuine, like it didn’t happen often, but when it did, it mattered.
“Play something happy,” Yuna said one afternoon.
Haram tilted her head. “You think I don’t?”
“You play like you’re heartbroken.”
Haram paused.
Just for a second.
Then she turned back to the piano. “Maybe I am.”
The melody that followed was lighter—
but not quite happy.
Yuna noticed.
She just didn’t say anything.
There were little things.
Things Yuna didn’t fully understand.
Haram never left the room.
Not once.
“Come eat lunch with me,” Yuna said one day, standing by the door. “Just once.”
Haram shook her head, smiling faintly. “I’ll stay here.”
“You always stay here.”
“I like it here.”
“Don’t you ever get bored?”
Haram looked at her.
“Not when you’re here.”
Yuna felt her ears warm.
“…You’re weird.”
Haram laughed softly.
Sometimes, Yuna noticed how cold Haram’s hands felt when they brushed.
Or how her reflection never quite showed in the dusty window.
Or how no one ever mentioned her.
She noticed.
She just didn’t question it.
“You’ve been disappearing a lot lately.”
Yuna barely looked up.
Juun stood in front of her, arms crossed.
“I told you,” Yuna muttered. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yeah,” another voice added, “it’s actually kind of suspicious.”
Yuna sighed. “Not you too…”
Ian dropped into the seat beside her, chin resting on her hand. “You vanish during lunch, after school—sometimes even between classes. What are you, secretly living a double life?”
“I’m not.”
Juun raised an eyebrow. “Then eat with us.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Ian asked, studying her.
Yuna hesitated.
Because someone was waiting.
“…I just have something to do.”
“Every day?” Juun pressed.
Yuna grabbed her bag. “Yeah.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” Ian said.
Juun’s voice softened slightly. “Yuna… is something going on?”
For a second—
just a second—
Yuna almost told them.
About the music.
About Haram.
About how everything felt different in that room.
But the words never came.
“I’ll see you later.”
And then—
she ran.
Juun blinked. “Okay, that was weird.”
Ian stared at the door. “…You noticed it too, right?”
“That she’s been acting off? Obviously.”
“No,” Ian said quietly. “Like she’s hiding something.”
Silence.
Then—
“…Let’s follow her.”
Ian glanced at her. “You serious?”
“She’s been avoiding us for weeks.”
Ian exhaled, standing. “You know this is how horror stories start, right?”
Juun didn’t hesitate. “Then don’t fall behind.”
Ian smirked slightly. “…Fine.”
They kept their distance.
Yuna moved quickly, like she knew exactly where she was going.
Down quieter halls.
Past unused classrooms.
Toward the far end of the building.
Juun slowed. “…Why is she going there?”
Ian frowned. “Isn’t this the old wing?”
The air felt colder.
Still.
They watched as Yuna stopped in front of a door.
The abandoned music room.
Juun’s chest tightened. “…No way.”
Yuna pushed it open—
and slipped inside.
The door shut behind her.
Silence.
Ian and Juun exchanged a look.
“…Okay,” Ian whispered, “now I’m concerned.”
Juun stepped forward.
Her hand hovered on the door.
Then—
she pushed it open.
“Yuna?”
Yuna turned.
“Juun? Ian? What are you—”
Juun frowned. “What are you doing here alone?”
Yuna blinked. “Alone? I’m with—”
She turned.
The piano bench was empty.
“…Haram?”
Silence.
Cold.
Heavy.
Her chest dropped.
Yuna didn’t sleep that night.
The next day, she ran.
Faster than ever.
The door slammed open.
And there—
Haram sat at the piano.
Playing the same melody from the first day.
Relief hit so hard it hurt.
“You’re here…”
The music stopped.
Slowly, Haram turned.
Yuna stepped forward, voice shaking.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried,” Haram said softly. “I just… didn’t want it to end.”
“End what?”
“This.”
Everything between them.
“I died here, Yuna,” Haram said quietly. “A long time ago.”
Yuna’s breath hitched.
“My teacher… she lost control. I didn’t understand what was happening until it was over.”
The room felt colder.
“I couldn’t leave. I was stuck.”
Her voice softened.
“For so long.”
Tears slipped down Yuna’s face.
“But then you came,” Haram whispered. “You heard me.”
“You talked to me like I was normal.”
“Because you are.”
Haram smiled.
And it hurt to see.
“That’s why I have to go.”
Yuna froze. “No.”
“I stayed longer than I should have.”
Her form flickered.
Faint.
Unstable.
“But I can feel it now.”
“No—” Yuna grabbed her hand.
Cold.
So cold.
“You can’t leave!”
“I’m not leaving you,” Haram said gently. “I’m just going where I’m supposed to be.”
“That’s the same thing!”
Her voice broke.
“I don’t want that!”
Haram squeezed her hand weakly.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“I don’t want to be okay without you.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
“…Yuna.”
Her voice was barely there.
“Thank you… for making me feel alive again.”
She leaned in.
Their lips met—soft, trembling, fleeting.
A goodbye.
And then—
Haram began to fade.
“Haram…”
Her voice echoed.
And she was gone.
The music room was silent again.
Dust drifted through the light.
The piano sat untouched.
Like no one had ever been there.
But sometimes—
when Yuna closed her eyes—
she could still hear the melody.