Landing in Your Inbox

100 - out with the old

There, he composed a song for his brother.

It was many things—a letter to a person that he considered his hero, his mentor, his rock, and best friend in one; an inquiry whether he was living well and happy; a reminder that he was loved and that somewhere in the world was someone who thought of him and prayed earnestly for his safety; a debt of gratitude that a musician could play freely because of a sacrifice that will never forgotten. In a way it was also a tribute to happy childhood memories where the future was theirs, a hope that they could meet again to say hello with smiles.

He chipped away at the song whenever he could. He sat by the piano in his dorm while having his coffee, adding and erasing notes. He politely declined weekend trips to the Rhine, dedicated rehearsal time to try out different note combinations, hummed it while walking in the park whenever he got stuck. Friends began to tease him about his mysterious project and assumed it was for his girlfriend. They demanded to hear it but the pianist maintained it was a gift meant only for one person.

The hard part was not tying the song together, it was keeping the secret from Mu-hyeok before the Seollal family reunion in Korea, and Jeong-hyeok's birthday. So Mu-hyeok's sudden relief operation on those days dealt a huge blow.

To wish him well and encourage him in his mission, Jeong-hyeok revealed the existence of the song which Mu-hyeok received with delight.

"Thank you, Jeong-hyeok."

"You haven't even heard it yet."

"I know, but I'm sure this song will be wonderful. I can't wait to listen to it."

Then as fate would have it, it was to be their last conversation.

The song never reached its recipient's ears. It was left to drift across the lake to satisfy a child's request, never to be played again.

The alarm had Jeong-hyeok jerking from his sleep. He looked around in his sleeping quarters, confused about his whereabouts until it dawned upon him that he was not in Switzerland, nor was he of schooling age, and his veined hands were more used to pushing buttons than tickling keys.

By the time he returned to the cockpit, the reflexes returned to him, from crouching low to enter the space to squeezing into the seat. The controls felt like home to his hand, as though reminding him this was where he was meant to be. In the air, in that safe space.

Is that what they teach you in flight school? How to play it safe?

"KR 906, Cleared to land, runway three-zero."

Jeong-hyeok shook his head and his thoughts away as he approached the airport, the Incheon expressway, a thin line stretched over the ocean.

"Cleared to land, runway three-zero, KR 906." Jeong-hyeok responded and prepared to align the aircraft before touchdown.

***

His only hold up were a couple of photo requests for some young passengers (at least the mothers said their children wanted them). The pilot didn't say no to those unless they formed a line and took time. The flight attendants knew to remind people to vacate the plane if it took too long and usher them out. Jeong-hyeok would always apologize to the attendants for the trouble despite assurances that they were happy to do it.

Following the routine, he announced his arrival to three people: his mother, his girlfriend, and Kwang-beom who was going to drive him back to Seoul. His mother acknowledged and said she would see him for lunch the next day, Kwang-beom said he was at the parking lot where Jeong-hyeok was headed, and his girlfriend wanted him to tell her if he was already settled in the car.