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Pi-o knew it was Jeong-yo.
He did not suspect it. He did not wonder. He did not feel that strange, uncertain pang of recognition a person might experience upon seeing someone who resembled a long-lost friend across a crowded street. He knew. Just like that, with the same unshakable certainty that allowed him to recognize an out-of-tune key before the hammer had even properly struck the string, that told him when an orchestra was a fraction of a second late—a fraction most people would never notice—and that had assured him all these years that Jeong-yo was out there somewhere, even when other people tried to convince him to stop looking. The man standing on the other side of the small café had different hair, dressed a little differently, and looked calmer, more mature; when he bent his head over his cup, Pi-o caught a brief glimpse of nothing but the line of his neck and a profile that might just as well have belonged to a stranger. But then Jeong-yo raised his hand. He adjusted his grip on the cup in that characteristic, entirely unnecessary way, as though even porcelain had to be held with a proper appreciation of its weight, and tapped his index finger twice against the edge of the table.
Once.
Twice.
Like counting in before an entrance.
Pi-o stood so abruptly that his chair scraped loudly across the floor.
Several people looked his way.
Jeong-yo did, too.
And that was when Pi-o felt something strange, something between relief and anger, so intense that for a second he completely forgot how to breathe. Because the eyes were the same. He did not care how many years had passed, how many wrinkles might have appeared at their corners, how much Jeong-yo's face had changed, or how long one person could go without seeing another before beginning to wonder whether his memory had invented its own, more convenient version of reality.
It was Jeong-yo.
Pi-o walked toward him.
Jeong-yo watched him with growing suspicion.
“Jeong-yo.”
The man blinked.
Pi-o waited.
Jeong-yo kept staring.
“Excuse me?”
That was not the answer Pi-o had expected.
He frowned.
“Jeong-yo.”
“That's what you just called me.”
“Because that's your name.”
For a moment, the man looked as though he were considering several possible responses, none of which seemed polite enough to voice in public. At last, he set down his cup.
“No.”
Pi-o looked at him.
Jeong-yo looked at Pi-o.
“No?” Pi-o repeated.
“That's not my name.”
“You're lying.”
Jeong-yo's eyebrows shot up.
It was so familiar, so absurdly, painfully familiar, that for a moment Pi-o wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, if only to make sure he was really standing there, that he would not disappear again the moment Pi-o blinked.
“That's a rather bold accusation to make against someone you've supposedly only just met.”
“Not just now.”
“From where I'm standing, we have.”
“I know you.”
“I don't know you.”
“You do.”
“I really don't.”
Pi-o clenched his jaw.
It was idiotic. Jeong-yo was idiotic. The entire situation was idiotic, and if anyone else had tried to convince him of something like this, Pi-o probably would have turned around and walked away, because he had no time for stupid jokes and even less patience for people who, for some reason, considered making his life difficult a form of entertainment. The problem was that Jeong-yo had always considered making his life difficult a form of entertainment. Which was why, for the first few seconds, even this absurd conversation seemed painfully plausible.
Only afterward did Pi-o notice something he did not want to notice.
The lack of recognition was not an act.
Jeong-yo was studying him carefully, but there was no suppressed guilt, no mischievous amusement, none of that particular light that used to appear in his eyes when he knew something Pi-o did not. There was only caution. Curiosity. A touch of irritation.
And emptiness.
Pi-o did not like emptiness.
He had had more than enough of it over the last nine years.
“What's your name?” he finally asked.
Jeong-yo gave him a different name.
Pi-o immediately disliked it.
Not the name. The person who bore it, even though he was exactly the same person sitting in front of him.
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“You've got the wrong name.”
This time, Jeong-yo actually laughed.
Briefly, in surprise, as though the sound had escaped his throat before he could stop it.
Pi-o froze.
That laugh.
Not identical. A little deeper, a little calmer, but familiar enough to make something in his chest constrict so suddenly that it hurt.
Jeong-yo noticed the change in his expression and stopped laughing.
“Did you really know me?”
“I know you.”
“You're saying we've known each other for a long time.”
“Yes.”
“And I don't remember you.”
“I noticed.”
“Remarkably perceptive.”
Pi-o narrowed his eyes.
Jeong-yo smiled again.
And it was at that moment that Pi-o became absolutely certain that even amnesia was not powerful enough to remove this man's need to annoy him.
+++
The piano stood in a small room upstairs at the café, where intimate concerts were occasionally held. Pi-o had noticed it earlier only because he always noticed pianos, the way other people noticed open doors or empty seats at a table. The instrument was old, slightly out of tune, with several scratched keys and a pedal that made an unpleasant noise when pressed too hard.
Jeong-yo eyed him suspiciously.
“You want me to play.”
“Yes.”
“I told you I don't remember being a pianist.”
“You don't have to remember.”
“That sounds like a fairly important part of playing the piano.”
Pi-o sat down on the bench.
He shifted a little to the left.
He made room.
Jeong-yo looked at the empty space beside him, then back at Pi-o.
“Are you sure?”
Pi-o answered without hesitation.
“Yes.”
Jeong-yo heaved a sigh.
“I'm starting to suspect that even if I really did know you, I didn't necessarily like you.”
“You did.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“You played with me.”
As though that explained everything.
Jeong-yo stared at him for several long seconds.
And then, to Pi-o's immense satisfaction, he sat down.
He did not touch the keys immediately, however. He kept his hands in his lap and regarded the instrument with something Pi-o could not yet name. It was not fear. Not exactly. More the kind of caution a person might show toward a place he was seeing for the first time, even though his body behaved as if he had been there before.
Pi-o raised his hands.
He played the first few measures.
He did not choose anything difficult.
He did not want to test him.
At least, that was what he told himself at first.
Later, he decided that perhaps he did, a little.
Jeong-yo listened.
Pi-o kept playing, calmly, leaving space in the melody that he did not fill himself. Deliberately. Empty measures, open transitions, places meant for another person.
For the first few seconds, nothing happened.
Then Jeong-yo lifted his right hand.
One finger touched a key.
Then another.
A few notes emerged, uncertain and tentative, like the first drops of rain falling onto dry earth. They did not yet form a melody. They were a question.
Pi-o answered.
Jeong-yo played again.
Pi-o changed the tempo.
Jeong-yo followed him.
And then something changed.
It did not happen all at once. There was no sudden flash of light or miraculous return of memories, no dramatic stilling of hands, no trembling voice speaking Pi-o's name.
There was something much more familiar.
Jeong-yo shifted his elbow.
Pi-o made room before their arms had a chance to collide.
Jeong-yo entered the melody half a second early.
Pi-o had known he would.
Pi-o slowed down.
Jeong-yo did not look at him, but he slowed down, too.
Their arms moved side by side, sometimes touching, sometimes passing within a few centimeters of each other. Four hands shared a single keyboard, but they did not fight for space. They did not have to. Each knew where the other would be. Pi-o led for a few measures, then Jeong-yo took over the melody without asking, and Pi-o let him, just as naturally as he had once done when they were seventeen and did not yet know there were things capable of stealing entire years from them.
Jeong-yo began to smile.
Barely noticeably at first.
Then more and more broadly.
Pi-o kept his eyes on the keys, but he could see that smile out of the corner of his eye, and he felt his own mouth beginning to betray something he would not normally allow himself to show so easily.
They changed pieces.
They had not agreed to it.
Pi-o began another melody.
Jeong-yo answered.
One sonata flowed into another, and then the two began to weave together, a little improperly, a little shamelessly, as though the two pianists were trying to prove to each other that the rules of composition were merely suggestions. Jeong-yo let out a quiet snort when Pi-o deliberately sped up a more difficult passage.
“You're doing that on purpose.”
“What?”
“You're trying to throw me off.”
“No.”
“You're lying.”
Pi-o looked at him.
“Your memory's starting to come back.”
Jeong-yo giggled.
And almost played a wrong note.
Almost.
Pi-o seized the opportunity immediately.
“You made a mistake.”
“No, I didn't.”
“Almost.”
“Almost doesn't count.”
“It does.”
“I don't remember you, but I'm becoming more and more convinced you were annoying.”
“You were worse.”
“That sounds like a very healthy friendship.”
Pi-o did not answer.
Because Jeong-yo had said friendship.
He did not know why that one casual word hurt and brought relief at the same time. Perhaps because, after so many years, even the wrong name for what they had was something. Like the first sound drawn from an instrument after a very long silence.
They kept playing.
And gradually, Jeong-yo stopped thinking about it.
Pi-o could see the change. He saw Jeong-yo's shoulders relax, saw him stop glancing down at his hands, saw his body remember something his mind still could not find. His fingers moved more freely. His breathing settled into the rhythm.
At last, Jeong-yo closed his eyes.
And Pi-o felt something inside himself loosen, too.
He did not need Jeong-yo to remember everything today.
He did not need nine years of history restored in the space of a single melody.
He did not need apologies, explanations, or proof that the man sitting beside him really was the same boy he had once known.
He had proof.
Four hands moved across the keyboard.
Two sonatas mingled together.
And between them was something third, something neither of them had written into the score and that no amount of practice could teach.
Their own language.
Their own sound.
Jeong-yo did not open his eyes until the last note faded away.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
“That was…” Jeong-yo began.
Pi-o waited.
“Fun.”
Pi-o stared at him in disbelief.
“Fun?”
“Very.”
“That's all?”
Jeong-yo turned his head.
He was smiling.
Not politely. Not cautiously.
Genuinely.
“I want to play again.”
Pi-o felt warmth spreading somewhere deep beneath his ribs.
He moved his hands back to the keys.
“Then play.”
Jeong-yo raised his hands, too.
This time, he did not hesitate for even a second.
And when their fingers almost met in the middle of the keyboard, Jeong-yo suddenly frowned.
“Pi-o.”
The music stopped.
Pi-o stopped breathing.
Jeong-yo froze, too.
They looked at each other.
“What did you say?”
Jeong-yo looked just as surprised as he did.
“I…”
Pi-o waited.
Jeong-yo looked down at their hands.
Then back at his face.
And, very slowly, he smiled the same infuriating, radiant smile that Pi-o had missed for far too many years.
“I said don't slow down, Pi-o.”
Pi-o should have asked him what he remembered.
He should have called a doctor.
He should have been sensible.
Instead, he began to play.
Jeong-yo joined him immediately.
Because not everything that had been forgotten was truly gone.
Some memories lived in the fingers.
Some in the rhythm of breathing.
Some in the way one person made room for another on a piano bench that was far too small.
And some things remained much deeper, in a place that even the loss of memory could not reach.
Four hands.
Two sonatas.
And the sound of two souls that, apparently, could find each other even when one of them had forgotten the way.