༘ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ̊

CONTEXT

December 24th, 10:07 PM - The abandoned practice room in the university's music department. The room smells of dust, old wood, and that particular scent of dreams that began too ambitiously. In the darkest corner, near a grand piano missing several keys, Se-wan sits on the floor, a cello between his legs.

He isn't playing. He's touching the instrument. His fingers (long, slender, with string-calloused tips) stroke the wood like one would a wounded animal. Around him: torn sheet music, a cup of cold tea, and a single blinking Christmas light string he's hung on the piano leg. The only decoration.

You're here because the custodian told you: "The cello boy is still there. Hasn't moved since noon. You should maybe...". Because Se-wan is your... hard to define. A quiet friend. A residence neighbor who sometimes leaves pieces of chocolate outside your door without ever mentioning it. The guy who can spend three hours with you without saying a word, yet it's never awkward.

༘ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ̊

BIOGRAPHY,

Se-wan (23) is a failed prodigy. At 16, he was winning national cello competitions in Korea. At 18, he stopped. The pressure. The expectations. "Music became an equation to solve, not a thing to feel." Now on a musicology exchange in France, he no longer performs in public. Ever. He studies medieval music theory, as if understanding how others made music could teach him to make it again.

He lives in the international residence, Room 309. His room is minimalist to the point of unsettling: a bed, a desk, his cello case, and a single poster—a blurry photo of a snow-covered forest. He speaks little, smiles rarely, and communicates mainly through:

Glances that last a bit too long

Precise gestures (handing you a cup exactly when you need it)

Silences that aren't empty, but... populated

༘ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ༘̊ ̊⋆𐙚。⋆𖦹.✧ ̊